by Janet Tanner
He blew smoke into the aromatic breeze.
‘Business in Hong Kong is always as usual. Making money is what keeps the place ticking over – or haven’t you realised that yet? It’s an insular world and I suppose your husband’s not entirely to blame for not foreseeing what was going to happen. Unfortunately, it’s all too true that someone who can accurately forecast next year’s trade figures hasn’t a clue about ordinary mundane things affecting their own family. It’s the way a businessman’s mind works.’
The suggestion that Gordon cared more for the business than he did for her was both insulting and infuriating, and she thrust aside the creeping memory of her occasional resentment of mornings when she awoke to find he had already left for the factory and nights when he worked until the small hours in his study; times when he was there but the business intruded – breakfasts when he hardly raised his head from the business section of the South China Morning Post, and evening dinners shared with clients or business associates. It was necessary for him to be single-minded if he was to be successful – their whole future depended on it. And to criticise him without knowing anything about him was as intolerable as the implication that he was also stupid.
‘I don’t really think it’s any of your business,’ she flared.
‘Ouch!’ But he didn’t sound hurt, only amused still. ‘You’re quite right, of course; it isn’t any of my business. I was merely making the point that if you were my wife, dying mother or no dying mother, I’d have made sure you stayed where I could keep an eye on you.’
In the darkness her face flamed. ‘I think this conversation has gone quite far enough.’
‘Probably. Anyway, I still haven’t told you why I was looking for you. We land at Bombay tomorrow and will be there for about a week. I shall be staying at the Taj Mahal Hotel. Perhaps when you’ve fixed up accommodation for yourself you will let me know where you are?’
‘Why?’
‘So that I can let you know the arrangements for the next stage.’
‘Oh!’ The flush deepened as she realised how aggressive her question must have sounded.
‘Do you know yet where you will be?’
‘When I was last in Bombay I stayed at the Taj Mahal, too. I should imagine I will go there again.’
‘Fine! That will make it easy, then, won’t it?’ He threw his cigarette butt towards the sea. ‘Do you want me to see you back to your cabin, or will you be all right?’
‘Thank you, but I’ll be all right.’
He smiled and in the bright moonlight his teeth showed very white.
‘Yes. In your present mood I think you will be. I feel quite sorry for any drunken sailor who gets in your way!’
Chapter Twelve
‘Elise Monkton! I don’t believe it!’
Elise swung round as the voice – very English and upper-class – carried across the lounge of the Taj Mahal, ringing clear and bell-like underneath the cut-glass chandeliers.
A tall young woman, elegant and reed-slim, in buttercup yellow trousers and a gaily patterned silk blouse in toning shades from burnt orange through to palest sand, was standing with arms spread wide like the ancient carved statue of the Elephant God. Her flaming red hair seemed to continue the colour scheme of her clothes and a gold Sobranie extended from a slender holder in her mouth.
At the sight of her Elise’s expression changed from surprise to pure pleasure and disbelief.
‘Lola! What are you doing here?’
‘I might well ask you the same question! Bombay in the middle of a war – it’s crazy! And I don’t believe I’ve seen you since St Honore in 1936!’
‘No. Oh, Lola!’
They hugged, laughing, with all the delight of old friends. It was true that after a year of living together within the close confines of their finishing school at St Honore, near Geneva, their paths had never crossed. Elise had gone straight into marriage with Gordon and moved to the Far East; Lola, daughter of an English viscount and an Italian film actress, had moved into the circles that provided meat and drink for the gossip columnists and was seldom seen until after dark.
‘Elise, darling, come and have a drink with me. There must be so much to catch up on! Will the Long Bar do? Now don’t say it’s too early, darling, because if you do I shall simply pretend I’m quite deaf. Tea may have its merits, but I have yet to discover them. Cocktails are so much more fun, don’t you think?’
Elise laughed. Although she did not usually drink until dinner, she had no intention of saying so and spoiling the reunion.
It was four days since she had arrived in Bombay and the delay was driving her crazy.
The Taj Mahal was a beautiful hotel, of course – one of the greatest not only in the East but in the world. With domes and minarets, it was a masterpiece of a blend of Victorian and Saracen Moghul splendour, dominating the Bombay waterfront. Within its pale stone walls no expense was spared, no whim left unattended.
But Bombay was not a city for solitary sightseeing. There were too many beggars crouching on the pavements, rattling their bowls, too many sneak-thieves ready to relieve one of one’s valuables and then sell them openly in the Thieves’ Market in Chor Bazaar.
When she had telephoned him on her first night in Bombay, Gordon had warned her about going out alone. She had promised him she would not do so, and it was not a promise she had found difficult to keep. But time had hung very heavily on her hands and when time hung heavily it was all too easy to worry about the future.
The Long Bar, a favourite rendezvous for many of the Taj Mahal guests, was already crowded but she and Lola were quickly served with the cocktails they ordered from the inviting list – including Manhattan and Side Car, Old-Fashioned and Madly Gay – mixed in a silver shaker, decorated with fresh fruit and sugared leaves and topped with tiny, delicate paper parasols.
‘So tell me what you’re doing here,’ Lola insisted, sipping her choice through a long coloured straw.
‘I’m killing time waiting for a boat to Calcutta.’ Elise found she had slipped naturally back into the girlhood habit of countering Lola’s gush with brevity.
‘Calcutta! My dear, that is the most ghastly place on God’s earth! A steamy swamp! Why on earth are you going there? No – don’t tell me! It concerns a man?’
Elise giggled. ‘Yes, but not in the way you think.’
‘What man?’ Lola drawled with voluptuous emphasis.
‘His name’s Gerald Brittain, but he likes to be called Brit, and he’s arranged my passage back to Hong Kong.’
‘Brittain? My darling – one of the Brittains – Cormorant and all that?’
‘The same.’
‘My, my! And is he also quite gorgeous?’
‘Lola, you haven’t changed a bit. Your mind still runs on one track!’
‘But of course. Do you know a better one?’
Lola laughed, a deep throaty chuckle that reminded Elise of balmy Swiss nights. The girls had been supposedly well chaperoned during their year at St Honore, but Lola had found ways of beating the ban.
‘Practice, my sweets, makes perfect!’ she had told her amused and admiring peers, and when vocations had come under discussion none of them had been in any doubt where Lola’s talent lay.
‘I intend to get the best from life,’ she had said simply. ‘And I shall do it my way.’
Again, they had understood. Lola had the face and figure of an angel and without doubt could have made a career as a model even if a lack of talent had precluded her following her mother onto the silver screen. But Lola had no intention of spending long days enduring snapped-out orders under hot lights, or parading on a catwalk for other women. Her talent was for enjoying herself and helping others – preferably men – to do the same.
‘And what are you doing here, Lola?’ Elise asked.
Lola lifted a lazy hand to order more cocktails. ‘I’m with the Sultan of Mohar and his party.’
‘The Sultan of where?’
‘Mohar.’ Lola was totally unabashed. ‘H
e’s very interested in rubies, darling. Amongst other things …’ Again, the meaningful drawl and the long, sideways look.
Elise laughed, feeling her worries drop away. From the moment Lola had called her by her maiden name it seemed she had become Elise Monkton once more, with no cares, no responsibilities, no image to maintain.
‘Listen, my pet.’ Lola glanced at the slender gold watch that circled her wrist and drained her second cocktail before Elise had finished her first. ‘I shall have to fly. Certain people become very impatient if I am not around at certain times – and a pre-dinner shower is one of them. But we must meet again. I suppose you spend an awesome amount of time with your gorgeous Mr Brittain?’
‘He’s not mine, and I spend very little time with him.’
‘Why ever not? No – don’t stop to explain just now, you can tell me later. Have dinner with us, darling. Will you promise, now?’
‘But what about the Sultan? Won’t he mind?’
‘Charlie? Oh, absolutely not. He has the sweetest temperament – as long as I provide the honey. I shall tell him we were at school together, and he’ll be delighted to meet you. She set down her glass and her green eyes sparkled wickedly. ‘ I ran into Josephine van Heffner the other day – do you remember Josephine? But I certainly wasn’t going to admit to being at school with her! She looks quite thirty if a day! But then, she never did get the hang of making the best of herself, did she, poor thing? A lump, in spite of Daddy’s millions … See you later, darling!’
All eyes followed as she swept away, leaving Elise to reminisce slightly breathlessly.
It had been good to see Lola again and she would look forward to dining with her tonight – as long as there were not any unattached men in her party who expected Lola’s friends to be as sweetly accommodating as she was. But in any case, Elise felt confident of being able to handle them. If nothing else, the John Grimly episode had taught her that.
For the first time since arriving at the Taj Mahal, she prepared for dinner with pleasure and anticipation.
‘Darling, who is that man who keeps staring at us? Is it someone we know?’
Lola inserted a gold Sobranie into her long slender holder, pointing with it, and Elise flushed with anger and embarrassment.
She knew who Lola was referring to without even bothering to follow the direction she indicated. She too had been very aware of the long, narrow glances, although she had done her best to avoid them.
‘It’s Gerald Brittain, who arranged my passage for me,’ she said shortly.
Dinner was almost over – four courses, each with its appropriate wine, had been served by the liveried and turbanned waiters, and now a chef was flaming brandy-soaked crepes on a silver trolley beside their table.
The setting was spectacular – the sparkling chandeliers showed to their best advantage the ornately carved frieze, the gilt pillars and scarlet walls, the scarlet cloths on the exquisitely laid out cold table. As always the service had been faultless. And the company could hardly have been more entertaining – the Sultan of Mohar, ivory tuxedo contrasting with swarthy skin; an English actor known for his wit and grace; a Greek shipping magnate’s daughter and an exiled Spanish nobleman.
But throughout the meal Elise had been made acutely uncomfortable by Gerald Brittain’s presence in the dining room.
She had noticed him the moment she had come in, borne along by an effervescent Lola. During the four days that they had been at the Taj Mahal she had seen him in the dining room only once before, and that at breakfast, but now here he was, sitting alone at one of the tables.
He had seen her at the same moment – she was made aware of it by the slight sideways movement of his head and the narrowing of his eyes behind the screen of cigarette smoke. Then he had looked away and the half smile of greeting froze on her mouth. Lola’s arm around her waist had steered her towards their table: ‘Look, darling, they’ve laid a red rose for each of us. Isn’t it divine?’ and she ignored him as arrogantly as he had ignored her.
But from where she was seated between the actor and the exiled Spaniard, she had a clear view of him, and was irritated each time their eyes met.
Surely he should have finished his meal and left by now? He had already begun when they had come in and it only took half the time to eat dinner if you ate alone. Yet still he sat there, smoking and warming his brandy balloon between his hands.
The chef finished preparing the crépes and a waiter served them, steaming still and running with syrup. But Lola made no attempt to put out her cigarette. Instead she stared, fascinated, at Gerald Brittain.
‘So that’s your knight in shining armour, darling! Why on earth didn’t you say so?’
‘Between us we hardly give anyone else the chance to say anything!’ the actor observed drily, and the Sultan, who had been educated at Eton and Oxford and whose English was excellent chided him:
‘Speak for yourself, Bruno! We don’t all have your gift for sparkling repartee.’
Melina, the Greek heiress, had turned round in her seat so that she too could see the subject of their conversation.
‘Hmm.’ She sucked in her cheeks so that her sloe-dark eyes narrowed appreciatively above them. ‘Perhaps she didn’t say so because she wants to keep him all to herself. And I can’t say I blame her, can you, darlings?’
Without removing her gaze from Brit, Lola laid a restraining hand on the actor’s arm.
‘Down, Bruno! Leave, boy!’
The actor’s romantic preferences were well-known and the entire party with the exception of Elise erupted into laughter. She was becoming more uncomfortable by the minute, but Bruno – whose eyes were certainly glittering suddenly – and Lola had no intention of letting such a promising topic of conversation slide away from them so easily; their comments, bandied back and forth, ensured that the others remained helpless with laughter.
Over the Sultan’s shoulder Elise saw Brit finish his brandy and stand up. Although throughout the meal she had wanted him gone, now she found herself wishing fervently that in order to go he did not have to pass quite so close to their table. He would hardly be able to avoid hearing the continual joking and she kept her eyes on her plate as he approached, praying the others would have the good manners to modify their comments. They were, after all, in the company of a member of the royal house of Mohar.
As Brit neared the table Bruno settled his sardonic features into an expression so straight that it was amusing in itself, but Lola watched him avidly and as he passed she extended a slim, scarlet-tipped hand to stop him.
‘Excuse me! Oh, please don’t run away, Mr Brittain, we’ve been hearing so much about you.’
The heiress almost choked on her cr’pe as, unabashed, Lola continued, ‘Elise has been telling us how perfectly lovely you are – as if we couldn’t see for ourselves. Won’t you join us, so that we can all get to know one another properly? I’m sure we can easily rustle up another chair for you …’
‘No, thank you,’ Brit said coolly.
‘But darling, you would be more than welcome – wouldn’t he, Charlie?’
Coal-black eyes glinted like pieces of jet.
‘Of course! But you must not detain the gentleman against his will. I apologise on Lola’s behalf, Mr Brittain. I can see that you would prefer to leave.’
‘That is true, Your Highness.’
‘Then by all means do so. My friend unfortunately sometimes forgets that not everyone shares her capacity for enjoyment. There are some of us whose purpose in this world is more serious, wouldn’t you say? And some who, no matter what the circumstances, will still continue to see only the lighter side.’
‘I do agree. Good evening, Your Highness.’
‘Good evening, my dear fellow.’
‘Oh, what a pity!’ the actor sighed as Brit left the dining room. ‘It looks as if you’ve managed to preserve him all for yourself after all, Elise darling.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, she’s welcome to him,’ Lola drawled.
‘What a shame that such good looks conceal such a perfectly boorish personality. One can really never tell, can one?’
Elise said nothing. She had seen the utter contempt in Brit’s face as he looked at her and she was amazed how much she minded.
Once, she thought wryly, she might have agreed with Lola that Brit was a boor. Tonight she couldn’t help feeling that apart from the Sultan, he was the only one who had come out of the encounter with any credit or dignity.
Elise was breakfasting alone next morning when Brit came in, crossing the room to her table.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’ Fool that she felt, she hoped it did not show in her face. ‘Did you want to see me?’
‘Yes. I thought I might catch you last night, but it didn’t seem too good a time.’
The flush rose and she could do nothing to stop it. So that was why he had been sitting there – hoping for an opportunity to speak to her.
‘Sit down,’ she said.’ Would you like some coffee? There’s plenty in the pot.’
‘I’ve already had breakfast in my room.’ But he sat anyway. ‘Arrangements for the next stage: we shall be sailing for Calcutta on a ship called the Maid of Darjeeling. From there we shall go across to Rangoon, Rangoon to Penang, Penang to Singapore, Singapore to Hong Kong. At least that’s the plan. Whether it will work out like that of course remains to be seen.’
There was a sinking feeling in her stomach. The raider episode was still very clear in her mind.
‘When do we sail?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Thank goodness for that. This delay is driving me mad.’ She saw his look. ‘I’m really very sorry about last night,’ she added.
‘Forget it!’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘ Though I can’t say I was very enamoured of your friends.’
‘They had drunk too much wine, I think.’
‘Was that what it was?’
‘Cocktails before we started eating and then a different wine with each course …’
‘Not to mention the quantity they no doubt consumed at lunch. And all afternoon spent lying on their sun-beds at the pool-side.’